The greenish-blue mile
by Ad Vesperum
Summary: M!OC is a part of the Avengers, but is a pretty unhelpful telepath who can't fight. Slash, Drama Etc.
1. Ch1 The prologue

"Alright, I have a question for you, one which you don't have to answer. I feel like if you don't answer it though, you're kind of answering it, you know.."  
They had just passed the sign that told them they were in New Jersey, the garden state.

Rogers had hot wired a car, which he was now driving, with Natasha riding shotgun and Michael sitting in the back.

"What?"

"Was that your first kiss since 1945?"

"That bad, huh?"

"I didn't say that."  
"Well it kinda sounds like that's what you're saying."

"No. I didn't, I just wondered how much practice you've had.."

"No, I don't need to practice.."

Michael, who had followed their banter with waning interest, suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to contribute.

"Didn't you though?", he asked.

He knew Rogers was now looking at him in the rear view mirror, he didn't have to look to confirm it.

He could have ended it there, but the words kept coming out: "That's rather unkind of you, did you forget or repress?"  
The former soldier turned American icon started to say something, but Natasha chimed in before he got very far: "I think I want to hear that story."

She turned her head, meeting Michael's eyes, her expression as occlusive as always.

Michael fidgeted with the device still clasped on his arm.

It suppressed his ability to read minds. Not that he had ever been able to read Natasha's without her letting him.

"I guess Steve never really told anyone who didn't ask. And who would ask Captain America if he was a two beer queer", it was an unnecessary jab, Michael knew that.

This was his own nervousness speaking.

He should have enjoyed the situation for all that it was worth, the woman who knew everything, Black Widow, listening to his every word.

And Steve Rogers, the First Avenger, at a loss for words.

But there was an uneasy feeling in Michael's stomach, a voice screaming inside his head to end this.

He spoke again: "Steve was quite accommodating, that night in New York. But then again, he had to be a bit pent up after seventy years."

There was no surprise or shock in Natasha's eyes, but Michael hadn't expected her to be. She turned to Rogers: "So what's your take on that?"  
The man's eyes stayed on the road. His response was mechanic, stern: "I don't remember. Must have been too drunk."  
Again this voice. Let it slide, it said.  
"You seemed to remember fine that next morning. That must have been some magic alcohol you drank."

He faintly noticed the car now driving faster than before. From his position in the middle of the backseat he could see Rogers' hand gripping the steering while so tight the plastic bent.

The response Rogers gave was more biting than Michael had anticipated.

"Maybe you played one of your mind games on me."  
He had wondered himself if that was what had happened.

He had been drunk and it would not have been the first time he subconsciously used mind control on someone, as Natasha well knew.

But he didn't like the implication this had. An implication that was not lost on Romanoff: "You mean he raped you?"

The grip of Rogers hand loosened visibly. Again Michael could feel his gaze, but he couldn't return it.  
"Maybe..", he said, but Rogers spoke over him.

"That's not what I said."  
But it was what he thought, Michael was sure of that.

Again his hands found the gadget around his wrist. If he had been wearing it a few month earlier, this wouldn't even need to be discussed.

He felt like child again, everything he said seemed to make things worse for himself.

Finally, Natasha said something else and the subject of conversation shifted. Neither she not Rogers paid any attention to him for the rest of the ride.

* * *

They finally stopped at an Army base, the place where the signal they were following had been located.

Into the secret shield bureau, disguised as a storage facility they went,

then downward into the secret super computer room, disguised as another secret elevator, disguised as a wall.

A lot of secrets within one building.

The large computer made a buzzing noise when he sprung to life:

 **Rogers, Steven.**

 **born 1918.**

 **Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna.**

 **born 1984.**

 **Smith, Michael James.**

 **Born 1987**

"Sounds like a recording", Natasha (Natalia?) said.

 **I am not a recording, Fräulein.**

The computer's German accent was thick, exorbitant and sounded distinctly fake.

 **I may not be the man I was when the captain took me prisoner in 1945...**

In that moment something grabbed Michael's attention and he zoned out. There was more to this room, he was sure of that.

Was it in the walls, yet another secret lair? No, it wasn't something tangible, not even something happening at present.

It wasn't someone else's thought either, his telepathy was still suppressed.

A dread took control of him. Something was approaching, and fast.

And then, all hell broke loose.

The door they had come in through shut close, Rogers threw his shield at it, to no avail. It was already too late.

Natasha informed them that a missile was about to hit them, and Rogers pulled open a grille on the ground.

He and Natasha jumped inside, he could see Rogers looking for Michael to follow. But Michael felt paralyzed.

Maybe this was it, the logical conclusion to his Life.

He closed his eyes, ripped off the bracelet and felt his mind fleeing from his body, looking for something to hold onto.  
He didn't feel the explosion, his body being pushed and shoved.

The fire, the rubble, it was all far away.

2


	2. Ch2 Avengers: the short version

It was still dark when Michael seated himself in the most comfortable chair of the hotel lobby. He had contemplated showing up late,

the thought of Agent Coulson waiting impatiently was a rather nice one.

The man had arrived only yesterday, informing him that he was needed at last, and while this was at least a change from drifting between hotels

and waiting for time to pass while playing cards with simple minded soldiers,

the brusque tone in which Coulson had commanded him to pack his things had annoyed Michael.

Michael found it nigh impossible to read Agent Coulson's mind, it reminded him of the way that Director Fury had been resistant to his power.

Maybe it was some training they did at Shield, against brainwashing or being questioned by enemy forces, he couldn't quite tell,

but it was giving him headaches, literally and figuratively.

"Didn't Director Fury ask you to dress nicely?", Coulson looked at Michael with a certain distaste.  
Michael shrugged: "I did the best I could."

It wasn't a lie. He had tried putting on the white shirt and black pants, he really had. But whenever he had looked at himself in the mirror,

something inside Michael had protested against the attire.

In the end he had put on a sea green button up over a dove gray T-Shirt, that matched nicely with his reddish brown hair.

At least Michael thought so. The dark Jeans and cream slippers did little to make the outfit formal, but they were too comfortable not to wear them.

Coulson refrained from commenting further, instead signaling Michael to follow before leaving the lobby through the front entrance.

Michael flashed the friendly receptionist a smile, who had given him a coffee free of charge, after Michael had groggily tripped over one of the chairs earlier.

The street was crowded, even now, and Michael had trouble keeping up with Coulson, who confidently strode towards his destination,

seemingly ignorant of the people forcefully shoving past.

Michael kept quiet and soon they reached a small plaza, on which one of S.H.I.E.L.D.s jets awaited them.

Inside sat a blond man, whose face was familiar, although Michael couldn't quite pinpoint where he had seen it.

Carefully, as not to make Coulson suspect what he was doing, Michael tapped into the man's thoughts. Pictures of war flooded his mind,

they were faint, like old memories. He had seen this imagery before, in movies and documentaries. World War II.

Then, memories of strange weaponry, the people who used it wore a dark kraken on their chest.

A man, his features distorted skull-like, glowing blood red.

Finally, everything vanished in place of a great wall of ice, Michael could almost feel the cold emanating from it.

This was Captain America, he realized, the war hero that had vanished around 1945.

"This is enough, Mr. Smith." Coulson had after all noticed what he was doing.

He tried his best to sound apologetic as he lied: "I'm sorry, I can't help it sometimes."  
"I don't understand", inquired Captain America.

But when he didn't get an explanation right away he remembered his manners and extended his hand to Michael: "Hello, I'm Steve Rogers."

He had a firm grip, Michael contemplated when he returned the gesture.

This man had, after all, an inhuman strength stemming from an experiment, he reminded himself. "Nice to meet you."

Only when their hands had parted Coulson stepped up and took it upon himself to make up for Michael's lack of courtesy.

"This is Michael Smith, another one of our assets."

Was that really what he was, an asset? People like Captain America or the Hulk,who Michael suspected would join them at some point,

were great fighters, soldiers, forces of nature.

He on the other hand was just a regular man, his mind powers could be nullified by any person with enough willpower as it seemed.

What was he supposed to do that could benefit an organization such as S.H.I.E.L.D. in an emergency?

The only advantage he had was that he could take being an asshole to a whole new level.

As to prove it he gestured at Rogers to move closer and whispered conspiratorially: "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone that you fantasize

about Olivia de Havilland riding the cannon of an M3A3 Stuart.

Rogers' disturbed expression at that tasteless breach of privacy was positively thrilling.

Coulson soon handed out two tablets to them. "On here is some information regarding the people you will be working with.

Try and finish reading it until we arrive", he told them in a friendly tone, that Michael had never heard him use before.

Michael skipped the briefing on Rogers, as he had sufficient knowledge of the man already, having skimmed his mind.

Next up was information on himself.

He was listed as Michael James Smith. He had always disliked his second name. His father's name.

The photo chosen for his file was a snapshot of him on the street, all unhealthy complexion and dark circles around his pale eyes.

His bio was pretty neutral and informative, save a section that described him as antisocial and vulnerable to substance abuse.

Then again, that was fair enough.

He absentmindedly browsed the remaining briefings, but didn't pay much mind to them.

He hoped he wouldn't be in the field with these people.

"How did you get recruited, Smith?", Rogers asked, drawing Michael's attention, "You don't seem very high profile."

Michael gave a sardonic smirk to that. "Funny story that. My landlord gave me a notice to quit my apartment.

I went to him and convinced him to let me stay, that's sort of my thing, being convincing. After that I got a few visits from these soldiers

who tried to persuade me to move out of my apartment. I tried to get them to tell me why, but they didn't even seem to know themselves.

After a week of that I got paid a visit by these very accommodating agents, sent by a secret government organization.

Unlike the soldiers they did know why I had to leave.

There was a celebrity moving into the apartment next door and they meant to replace every resident with agents to keep track of that celebrity.

Why, that very important person was none other than Captain America, the first Avenger.

After I send them back to my organization with a message of friendship, I received a visit from a certain 'Director Fury'. The rest is history."

He watched Rogers furrowing his brow, clearly pondering something.

But Michael didn't dare annoy Coulson any further, so he refrained from checking what that was.

After another good twenty minutes they arrived at their destination, a giant aircraft carrier.

* * *

"Mr. Smith", Fury greeted him as he stepped onto the bridge of the, now airborne helicarrier, "We need to talk."  
"Right here?", Michael eyed the crowded room, full of people working on computers.

Director Fury didn't answer, but led him into a briefing room before he continued. "Mr Smith, we need to talk about your use of stimulants."

Michael feigned ignorance: "What do you mean by that?"

Fury walked around the table, hands behind his back, thoughtfully looking at the man before him:

"You are aware that we monitor your every motion?"  
Michael shrugged: "What about that?"  
Fury continued: "On January the 1. of this year, you consumed a total of 60mg Dextroamphetamine. The same of which you took on March the 6. and March the 13. On January the 7. you consumed 500ug Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, then 400ug on February the 2. and February the 25. and then again 500ug on March the 4. On February the 13. you took 15mg Methamphetamine Hydrochloride, do I need to continue?"  
"You don't."

"Now then, Mr. Smith, I trust you will cease this behavior as of now", Fury said matter of factly,

"We do have a psychologist on board. Should you feel the need to talk to someone, approach Mrs. Jones on deck four."  
Michael silently nodded, though he knew he would not follow that suggestion.

* * *

Michael woke with a sense of foreboding. Light flooded through the blinds into the room, signaling that the night had given way for a new day.

No doubt the others had returned from the attempted crisis aversion in Germany.

Michael sat up and took a deep breath. His mind reached out, carefully scanning his close vicinity, then a wider perimeter.

He passed the thoughts of soldiers and scientists, trying to find information on what transpired during the night.

Suddenly his probing was met by a wall.

Michael wondered weather this was Fury or Coulson, but when he established contact he was met by a different person.

 _Who is this?_ He asked.

It wasn't like a normal conversation, talking to someone through telepathy. Michael couldn't hear a voice do differentiate between people,

but every mind had a distinct feel about it. And this was neither Fury nor Coulson.  
 _You have met me before._ Was the curt response.

Michael tried to probe deeper, but his efforts were met by an unmovable barrier.

 _Don't._ The person responded.

Just then, a mental image flashed in Michael's mind, the person was giving him a chance to see who he was dealing with.

It was Natasha Romanoff, the black widow, who he had met when they first got to the helicarrier.

 _What happened in Germany?_ Michael asked.

Romanoff didn't reply for a short while, Michael got the impression she was dealing with something in the real world.

Finally, the answer came: _We arrested Loki. Thor joined us on our way back._

So the Asgardians were on the ship now. He remembered Reading about them during his briefing.

Michael drew back into his own body and stood from the bed.

They had outfitted his room with a few S.H.I.E.L.D. Uniforms in different sizes, but also his suitcase from the hotel.

Michael opened the latter and browsed through the clothing inside.

When he had found a few fitting clothes he doused himself in deodorant and tried to tame his bed hair a bit.  
After that he put on light cloth pants in beige and over that a navy blue shirt.

After slipping on some shoes he left his room and went down the dully lit corridor.

He didn't turn twice when suddenly the ground shook so violently that Michael lost his footing and smashed into a wall.

Things got dark for a while.

* * *

When Michael came to, his surroundings were drenched in red light, a great noise filled his ears and the ground was shaking still.

He started to bolt forward, to where he wasn't sure.

The shifting ground was making it hard to concentrate, the thumping pain in his head didn't help either.

He ran through this maze of identical corridors that comprised the largest part of the helicarrier.

Suddenly gravity shifted, as if the ship was loosing weight, and Michael was once again hurled against a wall.

The pain flashed white in his head, when suddenly a frantic thought entered his mind.

He was in over his head, this whole S.H.I.E.L.D. thing had been a debacle and this was the perfect moment to slip away.

They were occupied with this Loki, surely hey would only notice his absence when it was already too late.

He could get abroad, hide in Europe or Asia, be off the radar for some time.

He wasn't really needed here anyways, there was no harm in removing himself from the equation and live a happier life,

somewhere where things were a little less crazy.

He was yanked out of his stupor when the ship stabilized. He got up and rand down another corridor,

where it was noticeably colder than in the rest of the helicarrier. Soon he found himself looking at an open door, leading to the outside.

This was his chance to escape.

He recognized the armor of Tony Stark, the famous Ironman, lying on the floor, its lights fading as it slowly shut down.

"What are you doing here?"  
He knew the voice as Steve Rogers', the man now stood in the open door, literally between Michael and his escape.

Michael put on a smile and answered: "I'm just here to see how I can help."

Rogers didn't seem very convinced. He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively and made no move to let Michael past him.

There was a sternness in his voice when he said once more: "Why are you really here?"  
Michael didn't want to argue. He had never used his telepathy to do anything else than talk to people, read their minds, and subtle influence.

But something dark bubbled up inside him. He felt sick, strange thought, like fever dreams, slowly crept into his head.

He reached out to Rogers, pierced the heroes mind with his own and send a clear command. _Step aside._

Without further questions the former soldier did just that. Michael scanned the man's face.

At first glance the hero's expression was relaxed, but there was a strain just underneath the surface.

Michael slowly stepped over Ironman's body and went to the open door.

The ground was awfully far below him, he hadn't thought this part of the plan through.

Michael thought that there had to be some kind of parachute nearby.

Just when he was about to turn back to the corridor a hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him backward into the hallway.

Another hand grabbed one of his arms behind his back and he was shoved face first into a wall.

He tried to enter Rogers' mind again to get the man off him, but he ran into a mental wall, where a few words were spat back at him.

 _Get out of my head._

Michael chuckled breathlessly and responded in his physical voice: "I just want to get out of here, man."  
The hand on his arm twisted, sending a spiraling pain up to his shoulder, as the other hand left his back and wound around his neck.

His face left the wall as he was chocked, now with both of Rogers' arms interlocking.

Another bout of pain shot through his body, seemingly coming from his bowels. It made him mentally lash out with a force he had never felt before.

The pressure on his body subsided, and Michael turned around, seeing Rogers now leaning on the opposite side of the corridor, struggling to stay on his feet.

 _What is happening?_ Michael asked frantically. He reached out to anyone and everyone, trying to find the reason behind his sickness.

Then Rogers was again upon him, grabbing his collar and almost yanking him off his feet.

Michael responded instinctively, locking eyes with the man and bombarding Rogers' mind with every random thought he could think off.

Captain America froze, unable to process the situation, his eyes shifted out of focus and he sank to his knees.

Michael stumbled back against the wall, feeling more sick every second. Then it came to him. This was withdrawal, deprivation.

Going cold turkey finally took its toll on his metabolism.

He retched, Thoughts spinning in his mind, or was it the helicarrier, shifting again?

A yellowish, grainy puddle had formed on the ground in front of Michael's knees, the smell of it made him throw up once more, until he was dry heaving.

All strength had left him at that point and his face fell, to meet the puddle on the floor. He faintly noticed an arm, stopping his fall just in time.

Darkness took him once more.

* * *

Michael looked at the wristband they had given him. Proper hospital attire.

He still felt sick, but the medication they had given him seemed to dull the pain in his head at least.  
"Listen, we found Loki, we want you on the team to get him", said Tony Stark, who stood at the foot of the uncomfortable bed Michael was lying on.  
"I wouldn't be of much help", Michael noted lazily.

He sat up and snuffled, his mouth still tasted like bile.

"You beat Cap up, that's a start", said Tony Stark matter of factly, but Michael noticed that he seemed pleased. Everything was a game to this man.

"That was an accident, I can't control that." Michael rubbed his jaw, even speaking hurt a bit.

"We have a man shooting arrows who is helping us", exclaimed Stark, as if that was an argument all on it's own.

Clint Barton was a trained special agent. That man could do things Michael couldn't even attempt.

"I'm not supposed to leave", he said, in an attempt to argue further.

But Stark just fiddled with the tiny glowing gadget in his hand and said nonchalantly: "Neither is any of us. We will make room for you on the jet."

Michael didn't have a response. He really wanted to leave the helicarrier, despite what he said. So he got up slowly and tried to stand.  
"You might just want to put on some clothes", Stark remarked.

Not long after they were on a jet headed to New York.

The sky was a shocking shade of blue, the sun beaming a warm light on the earth, while white clouds crawled on the sapphire surface, like migrating turtles.

Everything was serene and calm.

Except for the wormhole, of course, that sat in the center of the sky like a gaping chasm of doom, sprouting aliens, Snake-whale hybrid monstrosities and whatnot.

Natasha aimed their machine gun at Loki, who was fist fighting Thor on top of the Stark building,

but the God pointed his scepter at them and suddenly the jet raced toward the earth, certain doom shooting upwards to meet them.

Ironman was flying outside, Thor was still battling Loki, Clint and Natasha were sitting in the pilot seats, but Michael and Rogers were flinging around in the back of the jet, unable to grab onto something to maybe cushion the fall.

As Michael floated there, weightlessly, time seemed to slow down.

He mused what chain of coincidences had let him to this exact moment in time, to this place? It was a weird way to go out.

An arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him upwards, against the ceiling.

Rogers was under him, taking his shield in hand and bracing for impact. Then the Jet hit the ground with a loud crash,

Rogers' shield hit the bottom of the jet with a metal clank and Michael ground his teeth trying not to scream, even as his fall was cushioned by Captain America.

He stood, legs shaking violently, and the world spinning before his eyes.

It was all Michael could do not to retch, as he stepped out of the jet onto solid ground, uncaring if some stray alien might see and attack him.

Rogers walked next to him, giving him a look that was kinder than Michael had expected. "Are you okay?", the man said.

"Thanks for saving me there", replied Michael, his voice more hoarsely than he liked. Clint and Natasha followed right after them,

led by Rogers the three ran towards the portal in the sky, from which more Aliens were raining down on the city.

Michael didn't spring into action as quickly and no one paid him any heed.

He sauntered down a ravaged street, as if sightseeing,only faintly taking notice of the battle around him.

When the others began talking among themselves via bluetooth, Michael took out his earpiece and threw it though the open window of an abandoned car.

After passing by a few blocks Michael sat on a car, that had been left standing in the middle of the road, hastily evacuated when the aliens first attacked.

He played with a small, shapeless piece of rubble, trying to let it float with his it didn't float, instead just falling to the ground whenever he let go of it.

He couldn't have said how long he had sat there when suddenly Rogers flew out a first story window, back first, and crashed on the roof of the car, just a few inches next to Michael.

Captain America didn't look good.

He was bleeding from several wounds, he had apparently lost his mask and his handsome face was distorted into a grimace of pain.

Michael shook his head, regarding his comrade in arms with a sympathetic look. "It's all fun and games until someone starts an alien invasion."  
Rogers sat up with a groan and gripped his shield, that had been lying on the ground next to the car.

Only then he gave Michael a sour look and remarked: "You could be helping us."  
"No one gave me a weapon", he responded mechanically, having thought about this very exchange a few times, "Or taught me how to use one."  
This seemed to leave Rogers at a loss for words, dumbfounded that he hadn't thought about that before. "But you..", he began, then trailed off for a few moments,

"In that corridor you used some kind of force on me.."  
"That was an accident", Michael interrupted, "And I can't recreate it. I tried."  
Rogers shook his head. "We should not have brought you here"

"Probably not", Michael stood from the car, "But that's hindsight."  
"Go inside the building", Rogers said in a tone that didn't allow for rebuttals, "Wait with the other civilians."

This time, Michael did as he was told.

6


	3. Ch3 Initial incident

"Step up Smith", Black Widow exclaimed, without turning. They were walking down the empty sidewalk in a brisk pace.

Puddles and filth covered the ground, above them a woman poured a bucket of gray water out of a window and onto the street.

This wasn't what Michael had expected when Black Widow had come to his hotel room and told him that S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided

on his permanent residence. But he could not complain, his life so far had been far from glamorous as well.

"Can't I get back my old home?", he asked, "I have the clearance, no?"  
She didn't reply, but for a glance that told him nothing about what she was thinking.

Around another corner they went, under a red bricked archway, that lead to a small square. Two children playing tag came out of

one of the four doors that led to said square and passed them. There were no plants growing in the court, the ground was covered in

uneven tiles. Black Widow turned right and opened another door, this one all glass and metal, which lead to a dingy staircase.

"I hope I'm on ground floor", Michael sullenly said.

She almost smiled then, before entering the house and motioning for him to follow. Up the stairs they went, until the air was humid and warm.

Natasha produced another key, with which she opened one of the seven apartment doors on the fifth floor and entered.  
The apartment was a lot nicer than Michael had anticipated, it was neatly furnished and the air was a lot fresher here.

Large windows showed the view of a busy street on one side and a glass door led to a Roof terrace on the other.

As he inspected the kitchen, under the watchful eye of his attendant, a thought entered Michael's mind.

"Romanoff", he said slowly, his mind still forming the sentence as he spoke, "Would you teach me how to fight?"

If she was surprised, then she did a good job of hiding it. "Why?"

"I'm more trouble than I'm worth", he admitted. The two keys Natasha had used to open the doors lay on the counter and Michael

took them and rolled them around in his hand. "It would be nice to contribute at least a bit."  
Natasha kept his eyes on him as she walked to one of the black, wooden kitchen chairs and sat down.

"For the next two month", she began, as Michael followed suit and seated himself opposite her at the table,

"Train at least five days a week. If you will do that, then I will train you."

Michael wasn't quite convinced that would work out, but it was worth a shot and his body already felt better, since his breakdown on the helicarrier.

"Would you recommend an exercise?"

Natasha seemed to ponder that for a few seconds before she answered: "I'll send you a routine tomorrow."

Then she took out a few electronic devices out of the bag that she had been wearing over her shoulder and set them on the table.  
"This is your new phone, where we can contact you. Also a wristband to measure your vital signs.

Stark is developing equipment that could dampen your telepathy, but he needs more information on you and your physiology."  
Michael scoffed and took a few grapes from the bowl, that was concisely placed at the center of the dinner table. "What is wrong with my telepathy?"

"Director Fury had the suspicion that you are using your ability subconsciously to influence the minds of people around you.

You might be controlling people without realizing it."

He hadn't expected her to be so honest and blunt about something like this. Of course he knew what she was saying was true.

And it wasn't a question of if he was using telepathy this way, but of how much.

"That would be dangerous", he admitted.

But Natasha continued: "Your quarrel with Steve Rogers prior to the battle of New York also hasn't gone unnoticed."

Of course it hadn't.

* * *

A week passed, and Michael adhered to the training plan that Black Widow had sent to the phone she gave him.

When first he thought it surprisingly light, he quickly came to realize that exercising every day, even for a short time, was still hard work.

The rest of his time was filled with mindless activity. He ate, took walks around his neighborhood, watched TV and one time went swimming in a nearby public pool.

The weather was mostly warm and friendly, though clouded.

Then, one day, the doorbell of his apartment rang.

There was no inter phone he could have used to ascertain who would pay a visit to him here,

so he tried his telepathy to seek out the mind of the person outside.

He could feel a presence, very clearly, but between him and the thoughts of whoever this was stood a wall.

An invisible wall, that he couldn't penetrate of get around.

It didn't feel like the mental training that had prevented him from reading Black Widow's or Nick Fury's mind. Less organic somehow.

This was either a really bad sign or meant that S.H.I.E.L.D. was contacting him.

He pushed the button that opened the building door and listened anxiously to the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

The man who stepped into the corridor of the fifth floor wore an expensive looking suit and hadn't taken off his sunglasses.

He looked like he had recovered from falling out of the sky in New York.

"What brings you here?", asked Michael, musing that the gadget this man, Tony Stark, was devising to suppress his powers seemed to be working.

"I know what you are thinking", Stark said, not without a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "But I don't have my present ready for you just yet.

You might have noticed that I'm wearing a prototype on my person, but there needs to be some work done on making it suitable for continuous use."  
Michael didn't ask how it worked, he wouldn't have understood the explanation anyways. Instead he asked: "What do you want with me then?"

Stark took out a phone and swiped away at the glass surface: "I want to invite you to go to a pub with me this evening.

You sadly missed eating shawarma with the team. Also I would like to see what alcohol does to these fascinating mind powers of yours.

I am sending you the details right now."  
"You want a good excuse to get drunk", Michael commented drily.

"That is an accusation I will deny", replied Stark.

But Michael accepted the invitation. He was in need of some company and he hadn't gone drinking since he was twenty three.

And so the man left him with eight hours of spare time and little to do.

He dressed in a black wide neck T-Shirt and plain gray shorts for the evening, put on some dark sneakers, took a jacket off the rack and went outside.

The weather had apparently turned sour during the night.

Dark clouds covered the sky, and fresh, large puddles covered the streets, like the day he had first arrived at his apartment.

Michael walked until his feet hurt. He ended up in a small, vegetated area, surrounded by dull apartment buildings.

The grass was damp and cold, but he sat down underneath a large Oak tree.

Wrapped in his warm wool jacket Michael leaned against the bark and soon dozed off into a light sleep.

There was a deep darkness in his dream. He was encased in a tomb of metal, submerged in a thick, yellow slime.

He tried to scream, but his voice seemed as silent as a whisper.

He only awoke when a voice called out to him. A voice that he instantly recognized.

It was Rogers, yet another Avenger to meet him, seemingly coincidentally.  
He would have thought that this was S.H.I.E.L.D. monitoring him, but surely they would have better ways

to do that than to randomly throw his former teammates at him. And anyways, Black Widow would certainly have been a better choice for a spy.

"You shouldn't sleep in the rain. You'll get sick", Rogers called out to him.

It wasn't quite raining, more drizzling. Michael pushed himself up against the tree and pulled the jacket tighter still around his body.

The air had become bitingly cold.

"I wasn't sleeping, just thinking." It was a lame response, but his mind was dizzy and he couldn't think of anything wittier to say.

Rogers came to a halt a few feet away, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was wearing a light T-Shirt and tracksuit pants.

Maybe he was truly just running laps and happened to chance upon him. But that somehow seemed unlikely to Michael. "Are you alright?"

Michael remembered the jet crashing, this man protecting him from the fall. It wasn't concern for him in particular, he knew,

they were teammates and Rogers a team player. He still enjoyed the concern, for what it was.

Maybe it was time acting like a part of that team, that existed in Rogers' mind.  
"What are you doing tonight?", Michael asked, trying to sound ingenuous.  
 _"_ _You might be controlling people without realizing it",_ Black Widow's words echoes in his mind.

He knew what he wanted from Steve Rogers, Michael was only a man after all.

Was it really just a coincidence that he turned up here, in the rain, wearing a white shirt? If it wasn't, should he be asking the man to go out for drinks?

But Stark would be there, wearing his gadget that suppressed Michael's power.  
"I don't have any plans", Rogers answered, returning Michael's gaze without flinching. It wasn't the usual reaction to people finding out about Michael's powers.

Usually they would avoid his gaze, get awkward and secretive around him. This was a nice change.

"I'm meeting Stark for a few drinks", Michael explained. It would have made more sense to ask Natasha, or even Clint.

Michael had only ever been at odds with Steve and he knew Stark and him didn't get along very nicely either.

Still, Rogers accepted, and Michael told him a place and time.

Or did Michael make him accept?

The thought came and went, leaving only the empty shape of it in Michael's mind to know it had been there.

Even when he sat in a taxi, driving him to the city center, where Stark would be waiting for him, his mind never returned to it.

* * *

They arrived at the bar at eight sharp.

Michael couldn't see any trace of Steve Rogers outside, but he had told the man they were meeting between eight and nine, so maybe he didn't expect them this early.

While he sat down at a table in the back corner of the sparsely lit room Stark went to fetch some drinks.

Nobody paid them much mind, even though Tony was one of the most famous people alive.

Soon, Michael was nursing a lager, while Stark drank whiskey.

The conversation revolved mostly about pepper, which didn't interest Michael much, but he didn't complain. Talking to anyone felt good.

"What's your favorite color", Tony asked after finishing his rant on women not being appreciative of a fat robot being named after them.

"Why do you ask?", Michael replied, feeling the inexplicable urge not to reveal anything personal.

Perhaps this was the effect of him not being able to read anyone else's mind at the moment, due to Stark's gadget.

Tony pointed at his own wrist, where a gold watch sat. "I'm making you a beautiful bracelet to wear, so that you can never read my thoughts again."

Michael suspected that the man, who was just finishing his second glass of whiskey, couldn't hold his liquor quite as well as he thought.

Before he could answer, however, a familiar blonde walked up to their table and gave them a short, but friendly greeting.

"You came", Michael said dumbly. He was glad that the man took his invitation, but nervous, now that he was here all the same.

Steve didn't seem fazed by the seemingly cold greeting and replied, matter of factly: "You invited me."  
Stark watched the exchange silently, pouring his third drink from the bottle he had purchased, then stood: "I'll get you a drink."

When he returned Tony sat a large glass in front of Rogers and another beer in front of Michael. "Rum", he simply answered Rogers' questioning look.

"I would have preferred water", Steve said.

"I know."  
He drank the rum anyways, his face barely showing a reaction to it.

They reminisced for a while about the time they already spent together, musing about the next threat that might unite the Avengers.

By the time his second drink was almost finished Rogers excused himself and went to the restroom.  
"Do you see any difference?", Stark asked when the door had closed behind Rogers.

Michael thought about it for a second, then answered: "No. But I don't think he can get drunk."  
Stark stroked his beard:

"He has a faster metabolism than you and me. His liver, also, works faster. But that is the strongest spirit they serve here and he has never built up a tolerance. There should be some kind of reaction, surely."  
Michael wasn't sure that he himself was able to walk in a straight line by this point, but when Rogers returned he paid extra close attention.

Did the man stagger, even a little? Did his posture seem more relaxed, his expression the least bit muzzy?  
He couldn't see any difference, but he wasn't adept at reading people based on their body language.

He only realized that Rogers was returning his gaze when the man had sat down opposite him.

"Is there something on my face?", Steve asked, though he didn't sound or look annoyed. Michael averted his eyes, perhaps a bit too quickly, and didn't respond.

His mannerisms apparently weren't lost on Stark. "So, Mr. Smith. What meaningful relationships have you ad in your life?"

Michael almost flinched and spilled over his drink. Instead he took a long sip and, when no one said anything further, said: "None."  
"I read your file before the battle of New York", Stark continued, while studying Michael's expression closely, "I like to know people before I work with them.

But there was little of note to find. Surely your life was not all uneventful, given your predisposition?"  
"Just because a life is normal does not mean it is uneventful", Michael could barely conceal the venom in his words.

He knew it was misplaced, this man did not mean to belittle his life before S.H.I.E.L.D.

But he was right. Michael's relationships at best had been shallow and short lived. A man he met in a bar, one of his colleagues while working in retail.

They could never last longer than a week or two. Knowing every detail of someone's mind was poison to anything that could be called love, after all.

The memory of these episodes in his life stung. He felt his mind reaching out to the people in the bar, but encountering wall after wall, he felt trapped, panicked.

Slowly he stood, without paying any mind to the two people at his table, then walked to the bar and sat down.

The barkeep, a burly, bald man with a dark mustache, looked at him questioningly and Michael ordered a glass of the strongest absinthe the place sold. The drink that was placed in front of him had a cloudy, green color.

Michael reached into his back pocket, but before his hand reached his wallet a note was placed on the counter.  
"You are not drinking that." It was Rogers, who now reached for the glass and took it out of Michael's view.  
"Get your own drink", mumbled Michael, standing up to face the man, who now put the glass on the other end of the counter.

But Rogers placed himself between Michael and the alcohol and gave him a concerned look.

It would have been endearing, Rogers looking out for his well being, but Michael couldn't let thoughts like that enter his mind.

"Where is Stark", he demanded, placing his hand on the counter for balance.  
"He left", Rogers replied. And suddenly Michael was painfully aware of his telepathy reaching into the minds of everyone around him.

Being drunk didn't help him control the ability. But it was only a moment before the feeling passed and he felt powerless and tired again.

Rogers lead him firmly out of the bar and onto the street. When they were outside, his hand lingered on Michael's back.

"You need to get home and sleep a little. I will call you a cab."

It was like all his remaining strength had left Michael's body, while his mind was racing again. The hand seemed to burn him, even through three layers of clothing.

When it finally vanished the ground began moving underneath his feet and Michael reached for something to support himself.

And then it was like he was back on the helicarrier, a strong arm stopping his fall before his face slammed into the ground.

"Thanks", he murmured, but what left his mouth sounded like a groan. He felt sick.

Again the ground moved, this time though it wasn't just in his head. First, he was dragged to his feet, then lifted up and sat down on a soft, leathery surface.

When he fell forward, his head connected to something soft and moving. His arms were lifted and pulled forward until they met and Michael instinctively locked hands.

"Don't let go", he was told.

The cold air on his face made him feel less thick and cleared his mind a bit. They were moving fast, he was sure of that.

The wind, that rushed past him, the noises of passing cars, they were driving through the city.

He leaned into Rogers' back and closed his eyes. After a short while that felt like an eternity, they came to a halt and Rogers gently separated his hands.

Michael opened his eyes and looked at the handle of a motorbike.  
"Can you stand?", Rogers' voice asked him.

Michael nodded and grabbed the motorcycle seat. He swung one leg over and jumped off as gracefully as he could.

He still felt like moving through water, dazed and confused.

This time he wasn't held, but he could stop the fall on his own, straightening up and looking around.

He knew the place. A brick building with large windows and a glass front door.

This was his old apartment building, the place he had lived at, before Fury had suggested he move out.

"You can stay until tomorrow and call a cab then", Rogers told him, sounding tired himself, but not unkind.

"You did not already call one?", Michael asked in return, but he didn't get an answer.

He followed Rogers into the building and up the stairs. He thought of something to say, or do, to make this feel less uncomfortable, but his mind refused to work properly.

He knew he shouldn't be here. If he left now, he would be doing the right thing. But he did not do that either.

Rogers' apartment was spacious, but not nearly as spartan as Michael would have thought. It was almost cozy. The furnishing was a mix of earthy tones, rather than the modernist black and white he knew from his own flat.

It wasn't what he had expected from another home sponsored by S.H.I.E.L.D.

Rogers took off his leather jacket and put it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. Underneath he wore a blue checkered button up shirt.

He then walked to the fridge and took out a bottle of water.  
Michael discarded his own jacket on a large, boxy couch and, burying his hands in the pockets of his shorts, watched as Steve poured two glasses.

Was he controlling the man? _Scratch your nose._ Michael tried.

But Steve didn't. Instead he walked past Michael, gave him one of the glasses of water, then sat down on a gray armchair.

Their hands touched briefly when he took the glass, but Steve did not seem to notice.  
"Thanks", Michael said silently, then sat himself on the sofa. He felt Rogers eyes on him, but couldn't look up to meet them.

A second of silence passed and Michael's mind went to his teacher in sixth grade, Grace Jones. He had accepted his powers as real by then, and started using them for profit.

But when he entered Ms Jones' mind, to find out the answers to a geography test, he had found thoughts, that hadn't come about naturally. They were about giving him, Michael, better grades and treating him nicer in class.

It had been clear to him, that he had planted these thoughts there, but he did not remember doing it. Then, Michael realized how bad he had been in geography class, and how badly he had wanted his grades to get better.

Just by wanting something, Michael had invaded someone's mind and made them do his bidding.

And what he wanted from Rogers wasn't as immaterial as better grades in geography.

His head was hurting. He was too drunk and too agitated to think clearly. His lust overpowered his rationality. And the way Rogers was looking at him now wasn't helping either.

He stood, too fast, and felt a stinging pain in his head. The world went dark, and Michael, though he knew this was just his circulation, reached for something in front of him, panicked beyond reason.

All thought disappeared then, everything that had happened, that night and before. All that was left was the present, and the something his hands found.

A body, larger than his own, solid and reassuring.

The first thing he saw when his vision returned was a checkered shirt. He looked up, to meet the gaze of two piercing blue eyes.

Rogers looked as dizzy as Michael felt.  
"Sorry", he said and let go of Steve's shirt, but an arm pulled him closer.  
Heat enveloped Michael when their bodies met. He pulled at the front of Rogers shirt, bringing his face closer and kissed him on the lips. The other man seemed surprised, but just when Michael was about to draw back, returned the gesture. A hand ruffled his reddish hair, held his head in place, while another tugged at his waist.

His mind was long gone by then.

When they finally parted Michael found himself fidgeting with the buttons on Rogers' chest, but he couldn't even open a single one.

He was guided backwards until his back hit a door. They kissed again, before Rogers found the handle and pushed it, drawing Michael close so he wouldn't stumble backward.

When they reached the bed, Michael had managed to open two buttons on Rogers' shirt.

He himself had lost his T-Shirt and had Rogers tugging off his shorts as soon as he lay back on the mattress.

Rogers opened his own shirt, looming over Michael, then rook off the sleeveless undershirt, before connecting their bodies once more.  
The heat was almost burning him by then.

When Rogers found Michael's neck he couldn't help but let out a moan, which seemed to excite the man on top of him. When he moved on to kiss him again, Rogers left a red mark on Michael's neck.  
But Michael didn't even notice. The feeling of closeness was everything to him.

He grit his teeth when Rogers entered him without preparation, but once the pain had washed over him only a pleasant numbness remained.

What followed was short, but intense, Rogers inexperience showing in him climaxing a few strokes in.

* * *

When Michael woke, he was alone. A faint memory remained of falling asleep in someone's arms, a pleasant warmth spreading through his body as he closed his eyes the night before.  
Then the memory returned and he bolted upwards.  
He found his clothes, folded, on a dresser next to the door. Above the dresser was a plain, square mirror.

He dressed and tried to tame his hair, noticing the hickey on his neck with a sigh.  
He wasn't as hungover as he would have expected, only a slight tremor remained in his stomach. But Michael wasn't sure if the alcohol was to blame or his uneasiness.

He exited and walked through the living room, into the kitchen.

There was Rogers, leaning against the counter, dressed in the clothes he had worn the day before, holding a glass of water.

"I'm leaving", said Michael when their eyes met.

"Michael", this was the first time that Rogers had used his name, Michael thought, "I.. hope I didn't hurt you."  
Michael felt like laughing and crying at the same time. This was everything he had dreaded and worse. Instead, he shrugged and said: "I'm fine."  
He knew he wasn't though. Rogers wasn't fine either. Nothing was fine.

Then he left.


End file.
